


Hints and Allegations

by Dark_Sinestra



Series: DS9: Sub-Prime [24]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Enemies, Gen, Internment Camp 371 (Star Trek), Intrigue, Occupation of Bajor, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 03:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16778683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Sinestra/pseuds/Dark_Sinestra
Summary: Julian sinks deeper into the intrigues and dangers of life within Internment Camp 371. In a den of spies and soldiers, trust is a rare commodity that could be more trouble than it’s worth. Garak finds himself drawn into a web of deceit for once not of his making while doing what he can to represent Cardassia’s interests on Bajor. After an unexpected medical emergency on the runabout, he learns things about himself and Odo that may make their status quo impossible to maintain.





	Hints and Allegations

**Part I**

_Julian  
Internment Camp 371_

Julian turned the small cylinder of Benjisidrine over in his palm, the dose already down by half. Martok’s labored breathing from the next cot over scoured his conscience. He was indirectly responsible for the Klingon’s extensive injuries. The only bright spot, if it could be called such, was that the Jem’Hadar saw nothing to be gained from fighting an opponent too wounded to present a challenge. They had left him alone after his costly sacrifice for Tain’s medication. _One dose,_ he thought, recalling Ikat’ika’s bargain. The price of the next one would be battle with four Jem’Hadar at once. He didn’t think Martok would survive it.

 _Any more than Tain will last without this medication._ He balled his fist over the cylinder hard enough to grind it into the bones of his hand. Glancing to his right, he saw the still form of the man on whom all of their hopes lay. He thought he could just hear his breathing, a softer counterpart to the Klingon’s. Of all of the people to be forced to keep alive, why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been anyone else? 

All of it felt much too Faustian for his liking. Who would answer the call if Tain could get it out? Would Julian jump from one fire to the next, prisoner of the Dominion today, prisoner of the Cardassians tomorrow? At least his captors here had little enough interest in his comings and goings. He harbored no illusions that Cardassian captors would offer such benign neglect nor that any faction that might still be allied with Tain would care one whit about a treaty with the Federation.

With a sigh, he tucked the small container beneath his blanket and pushed to his feet. All of his bunkmates lay sleeping. For him it was still hard to come by, no matter how exhausted he felt. When not worrying about Martok’s safety or his ongoing struggles with Tain’s failing health, he tormented himself with thoughts of what the changeling who must have taken his place at the station was doing. He made his way to the door as stealthily as possible and slipped out into the nearly deserted common area. He felt disinterested Jem’Hadar eyes upon him and noticed that the tips of their rifles held at ease subtly followed his movements. Even with his reflexes, he didn’t think he could do anything openly subversive without being vaporized on the spot. Would he reach the point where that would seem an attractive option? He shivered at the idea and hugged himself.

Despite the promising beginning with the Vulcan scientist Murak, he had seen little of him since their processing. He assumed it was for the same reason he hadn’t sought the geneticist out. There was nothing of note or interest to report. Vulcans weren’t known for an enjoyment of small talk or bonding, but what about that other man, Branagh? Even though every instinct told him the so-called merchant was untrustworthy, at least he was another human. Humans were far easier to understand than the other aliens sharing his captivity. He could use a friendly face, and at this point he didn’t care if the friendliness was merely feigned.

In hindsight it would have made more sense to wait until most of the prisoners were up and about. Ten irritable Cardassians and seven disdainful Romulans later, he finally knew where Branagh bunked and had him out in the common area with him, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Let’s take a walk,” Julian said amiably.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Branagh said, his smile as oily as the first time Julian saw it.

_Garak_  
Janitza Hotel Reception Hall  
Jalanda City, Bajor 

Meeting the rest of the speakers felt like reviewing a laundry list of the people his government had most wanted to apprehend during the occupation and never managed. Despite his involvement during that time having been tangential and more about keeping his own people in line, he had read plenty of reports, names from Dahkur and Rakantha, Kendra, dissenters who had escaped Gallitep. Despite all of their differences, one thing united them. It was plain to see the contempt in which they held him. Oh, certainly their words were measured and on the surface polite. It was their eyes that spoke their truths to him. _I should never have agreed to this,_ he thought, not for the last time.

As tempting as it may have been to stay close to Odo, he resisted the impulse. The Bajorans’ opinion of Odo was plain, as well. They respected him, nearly revered him as one of the only ones in a position of power ever to have treated them with fairness. As difficult as Odo was finding adjustment to being a solid, Garak had no intention of taking this away from him. He could be gracious when he chose to be, especially for a friend.

He stayed near the edges of the room and chose not to partake of the food set out on small, strategically scattered tables. One of the former resistance fighters from the Kendra Province approached him with his plate piled high with delicacies. “No taste for our cuisine?” he asked.

“I’ve never found your food to be lacking,” Garak said airily. “I’m simply not hungry.”

“Afraid we’ll poison you?” The tone was jocular, the look that accompanied the question anything but.

Garak tipped his head a bit, well aware that the Bajoran wanted to needle him into saying something inflammatory. “At such a public event? I have the same healthy paranoia as any Cardassian, but even for us that would be a bit much,” he lied smoothly. “No, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m truly just not hungry. I availed myself of the fruit basket more than was wise before dinner.”

“You must be enjoying this,” the man said, his voice shifting to a softer, somehow more aggressive register. At Garak’s baffled look he scoffed. “A chance to relive the glory days, to rub all of our faces in your self-righteousness? It must be gratifying to have a good look around and know how many Bajorans _aren’t_ here.”

Garak offered him his blandest smile. “Don’t believe everything you read,” he said. It was the Bajoran’s turn for puzzlement. Garak glanced down at his own name tag, his smile widening. “I’m a simple tailor, but I can understand your confusion. I’ve heard your people say we Cardassians all look alike. It’s such an unenlightened position for a people who pride themselves on their spirituality, wouldn’t you say?” He left the man to his anger-reddened cheeks and flashing eyes. It wasn’t satisfying enough to make up for his discomfort here, but it was a start.

_Julian  
Internment Camp 371_

Julian studied Branagh more closely than he let on while they strolled and talked. He didn’t have to hold as tightly to his ruse as an average human here as he did on Deep Space Nine. It didn’t mean he intended to give anyone an advantage or something to harm him with if they escaped. 

What were the odds of it? He didn’t have enough information for an intelligent calculation, no diagnostic tools for an accurate read of Tain’s degeneration, no way to tell how far along he was on hard-wiring the code. He realized he missed some of the conversation and shook himself out of his worrying. “I’m sorry. I distracted myself. Could you repeat that?”

Branagh obliged without a hint of irritation. “It’s all right. I run my mouth more than’s good for me. I’ve been told that most of my life. I said my biggest mistake was taking Lovok at his word. Romulans, probably the only people in the entire quadrant more treacherous than Cardassians.”

“You don’t know, then?” he asked in surprise, enough that he stopped walking altogether.

“Know what?” Branagh took a few more steps before noticing he was no longer at his side and turned to face him.

“Lovok wasn’t a Romulan at all,” he said, “or at least not by the time he helped organize the strike. Lovok was a Founder. That’s why we’re surrounded by Cardassians and Romulans. They’re all Obsidian Order and Tal Shiar, the last remnants of a failed attempt to defeat the Dominion.”

Interesting. Branagh’s silent but nearly apoplectic outrage wasn’t feigned unless he was as skilled as a Cardassian at hiding his true feelings, something Julian considered a remote possibility, but unlikely. The man truly hadn’t known. He balled his fists and shut his eyes for several seconds, veins bulging in his neck and his pulse throbbing at his temples. “Of all the slimy... I wish I could get my hands on him, just once.”

“It wouldn’t do you any good,” Julian said, closing the distance between them and gesturing for him to walk with him again. “They can’t be killed from strangling or blunt force trauma. You couldn’t even really hurt him.”

Branagh let out an ugly chuckle. “’Hands,’ was more or less, whaddaya call it? Metaphor?” He fell silent but kept up with Julian, folding his arms with his chin tucked downward in thought.

“If you’ll forgive me for saying so,” Julian ventured after a few moments, “you’re not at all the person you presented yourself to be at processing. Why the deception?” He was either giving him rope to hang himself with or a chance to redeem his initial impression. He didn’t yet know which.

Branagh glanced up at him with an expression of cynical amusement. “You were the only other human in that lineup besides me. Most people’ll be nice if you tug the heartstrings a little. Bet I would’ve gotten away with it if the greenblood hadn’t stepped in.”

Despite the distasteful racial slur, Julian had to concede he was probably right, especially since he was still disoriented at the time. “For all the good it would’ve done you,” he snorted. “I wouldn’t make much of a shield against the Jem’Hadar.”

“I don’t know, Doc,” he said with a shrug. “It never hurts to hedge a bet. Speaking of bets, you ever wondered what’s behind those big double doors?”

“They are a bit of a mystery,” he said. “I half expect it’s just cold, dark space.”

“Nah,” Branagh shook his head. “No way. The scalies may not give much of a damn what happens to us day to day, and they may all be ready to lay it on the line for those Founders of theirs, but they’re not stupid. That wouldn’t be a direct door to the big wide open. What would be the point? Does it look like you could even land a runabout in the commons? Nah. It may lead to a docking bay or something, but not space.”

It made sense. Julian found himself nodding agreement. A docking bay was more likely than his initial assumption. It would be profoundly short-sighted to have a prison full of spies and a big set of doors that once opened would simply depressurize and explosively decompress every living thing trapped inside. None of the barracks doors could form airtight seals. He had seen no signs whatsoever of safeguards in place should the prison suffer a breach that exposed it to space. He had seen first-hand just how expendable the changelings found the Jem’Hadar. It couldn’t be true of the rest of the prisoners here, or they would have already killed them all and been done with it. No, he was missing something.

Confinement was already getting to him. He wasn’t thinking nearly as clearly as he should have been. It was something he knew he’d need to guard against, if he could figure out how. “What does it matter?” he asked a little irritably. “I haven’t seen them open since I’ve been here, and it’s always more heavily guarded than anywhere else in this hellhole.”

“Maybe we haven’t seen them open it because we haven’t been here long enough,” Branagh said. “You wouldn’t need guards for useless space. You wouldn’t need doors that size without a good reason for it.”

“And you’re saying all of this to me why, exactly?” Julian asked, not liking where this seemed to be going.

“I don’t know yet, Doc,” the man said offhandedly. If Julian hadn’t had vast experience with Garak’s convoluted mind, he might have been more tempted to take that at face value. “Just thinking aloud. Habit of mine.”

“Well, you had best not do it too loudly,” Julian said, suddenly tired of his company and feeling like he could get a bit of sleep. He broke away from him to head back to his barracks. “Take it from a doctor. I know what’s bad for someone’s health.”

“You’re a regular riot, you know that?” Branagh called after him. His laughter this time was less ugly but still not something Julian felt he could trust.

_Garak_  
Janitza Hotel  
Jalanda City, Bajor 

Three times Garak started packing his small bag with every intention of taking a transport back to the space port only to picture either Leeta’s, Aroya’s, or Ziyal’s disappointed faces at his arrival back on the station early. Damn them, and confound emotional attachments! Was it any wonder he had avoided them for as long as he’d managed?

Every moment at the reception drove home what he could expect over the next two days. After his debate with Odo, he was expected to submit to an “open” question and answer session for a full hour, then later that night something called “Terok Nor: a Retrospective.” He could only imagine what they had in store for him with that. The infuriating part of it was that he truly was just a tailor on Terok Nor. That was his punishment, his prison, as much as it had been for the captive Bajorans. Would his father have shown him an iota of mercy had he left? No! He’d have been dead within hours of takeoff.

Then there was the opening ceremony, every bit as solemn and overtly spiritual as he had feared it would be, all gongs, chimes, and cloying incense. Endless prayers and blessings. Did the vedek leading the ceremony really have to glare at him during the entire recitation of names of losses from Jalanda City, as though he held him personally responsible? No Cardassian would be so unreasonable. No, his people understood grudges and revenge, had elevated it all to an art form, understood there was a proper time and place, and that directing it against the undeserving was a waste of precious resources better spent on their actual enemies.

So much for all of their lip service about Vedek Bareil’s funeral, not that he would be so crass as to bring it up. “Let this be a lesson to you, Elim. Selflessness only ever serves the selfish.” It wasn’t something Tain had ever said to him specifically. However, it wasn’t difficult at all to hear it in his matter-of-fact voice. He missed that side of his father. When Tain said such things, he could almost imagine that he cared.

He tossed his bag onto one of the empty chairs and lay back on the bed. He knew his back would be aching by morning. Maybe he’d be better off sleeping on the floor? He had just made the decision to give it a try when his in-room comm chimed. Expecting Odo or maybe Dax, he activated it with every intention of putting them off until morning. Instead, he received a Central Command encryption prompt. He keyed in his last working identifier code and waited, curiosity instantly piqued.

Gul Dukat regarded him coolly from the screen, sitting back and steepling long fingers before his breastplate. “Good,” he said. “You’re still awake. Interstellar time zones can be difficult to track when one is on the move.”

Somehow, Garak suspected Dukat would always know what time it was on various parts of Bajor relative to his location. His obsession was no secret. “Not for long,” Garak said. “Your voice is positively soporific. Do keep talking. I’ve never slept well in hotels.”

Dukat’s eyes flicked mild irritation. “As much as it would please me to go toe to toe with you, that’s not why I’ve called. The Detapa Council,” something in his voice went flat on the words, “for reasons beyond me, have decided to sanction this little stunt of yours. Fearing you may not have all of the information you need, they’ve instructed me to send you some files to look over before your presentations tomorrow.”

Garak narrowed his eyes, not believing a word of it. “If this is sanctioned, why the encryption, and why you?” he asked.

Dukat rolled his eyes. “Do you want the Bajorans gaining access to classified files about the occupation? This is for your benefit, Cardassia’s benefit. Not theirs. As for why me, I suspect it’s someone’s idea of a joke at my expense. I’m not popular these days, not that I need to tell you that.”

“You don’t think they’ll immediately try to trace an encrypted transmission from a Bird of Prey?” Garak asked.

“Of course they will.” Dukat’s smile sharpened. “They will find it came from the home of Alon Ghemor. His credentials speak for themselves.”

 _Alon Ghemor? Now I know you’re lying,_ Garak thought crossly. From what he knew of Alon, there was no way he would ever cooperate with Dukat, much less go to him for a favor. No, if this was coming from Alon, he’d have contacted Garak himself. He knew his old classmate better than this. He strove to hide his misgiving behind a mildly irritated expression. “And I suppose the council only just discovered I was on Bajor? I’ve been registered for the conference for some time now.”

Dukat chuckled, old malice rising in his gaze. “I suppose,” he said with an eloquent shrug. “You haven’t come up in important conversations in a long time. Perhaps they wished to avoid another embarrassing incident like what happened at the funeral. I deal with civilians as little as possible, but despite my one-man war, I still answer to Central Command when it benefits Cardassia. Now, are you ready to receive the transmission, or not?”

“So modest,” Garak said. _Uncharacteristically so. This is the last thing I needed to deal with tonight._ “Let me fetch a spare data rod.” He muted his side of the transmission and punched in a quick call to Odo. The changeling’s voice was rougher than usual. He suspected that for the first time in their association, he had caught him asleep. “Constable? I have a...situation, and as much as it pains me to say it, I may need your help.”

_Julian  
Internment Camp 371_

“I’m saying that if I could discover where it’s stored, you wouldn’t have to risk yourself this way,” Julian struggled to keep his voice low when all he wanted to do was to shout at the stubborn Klingon and shake some sense into him.

“It’s my risk to take!” Martok had no such compunction about discretion.

Julian winced. “Would you please,” he said too loudly himself, frowned, and then lowered his voice. “Please keep it down?” I’m trying to figure out a way to keep _all_ of us alive, not just Tain.”

“You want to steal from the Jem’Hadar?” Varal sneered. 

The only saving grace was that Sela was walking the commons. He had already had more than he could stomach of their tag team contempt for him. “Yes,” he said, meeting his gaze and holding it.

Martok growled, threw a rude gesture, and stalked out of the barracks. “I don’t have the patience for this. In two days, that medicine runs out, so in two days I fight.”

Julian sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut. “I know you don’t care for me,” he said quietly. Varal’s snort didn’t deter him from continuing. “But you had better care about what happens when Martok can’t win, which I fear will happen sooner rather than later. Tain has days at the most without that drug. Do you think any of the rest of us can face four Jem’Hadar at once? Five? Every dose more of them, time we need but can’t possibly hope to buy at that price?”

He heard the Romulan rise and the scuff of his boots on the plasticrete as he drew closer. His bunk creaked with the man’s weight, now seated close enough for Julian to feel his body heat but not quite close enough to touch. “I’m Tal Shiar,” he murmured with an intensity Julian had never heard from him before. “So is Sela. So are almost all of the Romulans around you. The Cardassians are Obsidian Order. If it were that simple, don’t you think we’d have done something like this already?”

Julian lifted his head and met his gaze again. “Would you have known to?” he demanded. “Not a single one of you in this barracks knew what to do for Tain. You never even asked him what medications he was taking before he was captured.”

Varal’s gaze flickered slightly. “Medication, no,” he said. “But food? Water? We’ve been highly motivated. Short of rioting, there is no way past those doors, and that has to be where they’re keeping everything important. We’ve been over every centimeter of this place where we have access, time after time. It’s how we found the old life support system.”

Knowing he couldn’t simply discount what he said out of hand, he gave it some thought. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t already thought of before, the discouraging notion that if some of the best spies in the Alpha Quadrant had found no way out of here, no way to improve their lot, what hope did he have?

“They watch you closely, because they know what a threat you are,” he said slowly, thinking aloud. “Maybe...maybe they’d be less wary of a Starfleet doctor and a Vulcan scientist.” Murak had offered to help him, an offer he knew he didn’t make lightly. Vulcans never did anything lightly.

Varal’s lips twisted. “The Vulcan,” he said, the loathing in his voice plain. “You won’t be able to convince the Vulcan to steal for you without telling him about our plan, and none of us will agree to allow you to do that. If I thought you would do it against our will, I’d break your neck right now.”

Rather than focusing on the threat, he chose to seize on the more encouraging part of what he said. He couldn’t prevent his lips from twitching. “You trust me to keep our secret,” he said.

The Romulan jerked his head back as though Julian had slapped him. “I didn’t say—” he began hotly.

“Yes, you did,” Julian said. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep that a secret, too.” He curled a half smile. “Let me worry about what I tell Murak. I believe I can convince him of the logic of this without bringing Tain or any of the rest of what we’re doing into the conversation.”

“It’s no secret that Martok is fighting to keep someone alive. You ensured that when you publicly volunteered to fight,” Varal said.

“Exactly. That’s no secret, so why would I need to bring it up with Murak at all?”

Varal regarded him in silence for an extended moment before shaking his head and standing abruptly to move away. “Impressively underhanded, for a Starfleeter. We’ll see how well that serves you when it comes to getting past the Jem’Hadar.” He pushed through the barracks door and left it swinging behind him.

Julian let out a small huff of air, as close as he came to laughter these days. That went far better than he could have expected. He could only hope that his next challenge would go as well. Experience, however, wasn’t on his side. “Tain?” he called softly into the open shaft. “It’s time for your break.”

_Garak_  
Janitza Hotel  
Jalanda City, Bajor 

Garak sat before the comm screen, scanning the files Dukat sent, while Odo used his communicator linked through the runabout’s to speak with an underling of another of Garak’s old schoolmates. Lok was far too important and visible now for Garak to contact directly. He wouldn’t have considered an indirect contact either, if he wasn’t concerned Dukat’s ulterior motives had the potential to damage the treaty. Even demoted and disgraced, Dukat posed a threat. If anything, those very facts made him infinitely more dangerous with little left to lose. He’d be a fool ever to forget it.

He tuned out the constable’s gravely voice as he focused on the list of names, ranks, and duties of the various Cardassians involved with the occupation. Dukat had to have known that he didn’t give him enough time to examine this as thoroughly as needed if it was to be of any use at all. He could only come to the conclusion that it wasn’t meant to be of use, that the purpose was hidden from him, like the deadly thorns of the prokussa plant of the Ba’aten Peninsula, utterly undetectable if one didn’t know to look or made the mistake of touching the deceptively smooth stem barehanded. _So, where is the thorn?_ he wondered.

He knew how to read between the lines. The trouble was that the documents seemed to be as straightforward as they looked. They were genuine records. Of that he had no doubt. He recognized enough of the names and knew enough about them to determine they weren’t falsified in any obvious way. The Bajorans weren’t expecting him to fire off every name of every Cardassian involved in the occupation, from legates to janitors. If Dukat imagined they would ask him about specific soldiers or bureaucrats, he didn’t know the audience. He sighed and sat back, only then realizing that Odo had fallen silent for a while now.

He glanced over at the other chair and frowned. Odo’s head lolled to the side, his eyes closed, mouth slightly open, and plastic features slack. “Constable?” he said.

Odo jerked and sat up quickly. “I didn’t want to break your concentration.” He sounded defensive.

Garak let it go. He hadn’t asked him for help only to prod at his vulnerabilities as a solid. “What did Lok’s contact say?”

“I was under the impression she’d have said precious little without the proper code.” 

It was a small jab at his facade, just for show these days. Under normal circumstances, he’d have risen to the bait with a playful quip about suspicion or simplicity. Instead, he waited in silence for him to continue.

Seeming to realize that he wasn’t going to play along, he continued more briskly. “She would confirm nothing with me, but she listened to what I told her and said you’d have an answer within the hour.”

He decided that might be more like within half an hour now, given how wrapped up in the records he’d been and how long Odo had been quiet. “Let’s hope that communication contains something more useful than the contents of this data rod.”

Odo hesitated before offering, “Maybe I should take a look?”

Garak stopped himself mid-head shake, an automatic response. He amended the negation, as there was some sense in letting Odo see _some_ of the records. He likely knew more of the Terok Nor personnel than Garak did. “Do you have a spare data rod?” he asked. “I was short-sighted enough to bring only one.”

**Part II**

_Julian  
Internment Camp 371_

It was difficult not to show his anxiety. Julian kept reminding himself that he was early. Murak was not late. He now had reason to be glad of his frequent late night walks up to this point. It wouldn’t look as suspicious when the geneticist joined him in making a round or two of the common area.

He almost ground his teeth when he spotted Branagh emerging from his barracks. _No!_ he thought. _Don’t see me. Don’t see—_ but of course he did, making his way straight over to him with that smile he would never be able to trust.

“You’re a regular insomniac, Doc,” the man said cheerfully, falling into step beside him. “Knew I could count on company. Between you and me, Cardies and Romulans make bad bunkmates. It’s like nobody’s ever heard of a slumber party.”

Julian shook his head. “Or campfires, or s’mores,” he added. Inwardly, he grated at the inanity of the conversation when he was about more serious business. Was this how Garak felt with him early in their association? If he ever had the chance to see him again, he decided he owed him an apology.

“Exactly,” Branagh cackled then quickly subsided and rubbed at his flat stomach. “You just had to mention s’mores, didn’t you?”

“Sorry,” he said. He was too nervous for hunger and had been hungry enough for long enough to be oddly grateful for it. He loosely laced his fingers behind his back and tried to give the impression that he wasn’t much up for talking. Maybe if he wasn’t entertaining, he’d bore the man enough to send him back to his bunk.

Much to his annoyance, it didn’t work. Branagh didn’t fill the silence between them with more chatter, but he also showed no signs of giving up and going back to bed. He adopted Julian’s posture and kept up with him, about one and a half steps to every one of the doctor’s. Julian heard a barracks door open and shut and let out a nearly silent sigh. Murak, right on time.

It took effort not to change his pace. Once more his thoughts turned to Garak, his inscrutability. How much energy did it take? Was it so ingrained it was second nature? He used to imagine it was strictly cultural. Having spent time around so many other Cardassians in his captivity, he no longer believed that. Most of them were more readable, although still difficult by human standards.

No, the only Cardassian every bit as unreadable as Garak was Tain, and for the spymaster, it seemed utterly effortless. He did his best to emulate that now, not turning until he could hear Murak’s footsteps behind them. Branagh turned, too, his expression souring. Julian suppressed an eye roll. The man’s overt racism was a problem. Up to this point, he had kept his peace about it because he didn’t want to make an enemy over personal distaste. Maybe that had been a mistake. He hoped Branagh would leave if he made it clear he had no intention of avoiding the scientist.

To his dismay, the Vulcan said, “You wished to speak to me?”

His hand twitched for a facepalm he managed to abort. Branagh turned a curious and somewhat accusatory look in his direction. “You didn’t tell me you were expecting company,” he said. Julian could hear the unspoken question at the end of it. _Why not?_

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said. “Does it?” His stare was an open challenge. _Go on,_ he thought, _say something offensive. Give me an excuse._

Branagh glanced at Murak and shrugged. “Nah. More the merrier, right?”

Murak’s gaze spoke for him without his needing to ask aloud. He had yet to take his eyes off Julian, as though Branagh didn’t exist at all.

“I just wanted to know how you were settling in,” he said. “We hadn’t spoken since processing. I haven’t seen you at all more than a handful of times. Are you faring all right?”

The Vulcan’s regard stayed level with no outward change of expression. Julian caught himself holding his breath. He didn’t worry he wouldn’t understand what he was trying to do. He worried he wouldn’t see the logic in going along with it. “Your concern, while admirable, is misplaced,” he said.

 _Thank god._ Julian’s relief washed through him. “I’m a doctor,” he said lightly. “I’m afraid it comes with the territory.”

Branagh smirked and glanced between the two of them. “I like plays as much as the next guy,” he said. “In this case, you’re wasting your time. Why don’t we cut the bullshit, fellas? You’re up to something. If it’ll break up the monotony of this place, count me in.”

Julian opened his mouth to protest. Murak cut him off. “I do not believe a lie would serve in this instance, Doctor Bashir. Your discomfort has been readily apparent from the start, and I admit that I, too, am curious about why you summoned me tonight. We should walk as we speak. It will draw less scrutiny.”

“I hate to say it, but I’m with the greenblood.”

“It’s Murak,” Julian snapped. “If you want me to say another word to you, you will stop with the pejoratives.”

The Vulcan arched a brow. Branagh glanced at him, then back to Julian and frowned. “Fine,” he agreed. “But only with you. I stop talking the way I always do around the rest of the chuckle-heads, they’ll know something’s up.”

 _Who are you really?_ Julian wondered. He’d have to take care now, much more than he’d thought when he left the barracks. Murak was something of a known factor, but Branagh? As it turned out, he was a total wild card.

_Garak_  
Janitza Hotel  
Jalanda City, Bajor 

Just as Garak finished separating out the Terok Nor personnel files and incident reports, Odo’s comm badge chirped. “Care to switch places?” Garak asked.

Odo grudgingly nodded, removing the badge and handing it over to Garak, then took Garak’s vacated seat at the display. “Keep it brief,” he warned him over his shoulder. “Communication glitches planet-side may be more common than on the station. It doesn’t mean that a longer one than usual won’t invite Starfleet scrutiny.”

He nodded. It was unnecessary advice that he appreciated nonetheless. He hadn’t asked Odo to delete the transmission records. He was privately glad he didn’t have to ask. He tapped the comm badge and gave his rotating code when prompted. To his surprise, it wasn’t an unknown operative’s voice greeting him, but Lok’s. He quickly stepped out onto the balcony and shut the door behind him. The damp chill of the night air immediately penetrated his clothing. He ignored the discomfort. “Well?” he asked.

“The files were declassified a few days ago,” Lok said, sounding wry. “Our government’s new commitment to transparency. A couple of council members had conversations with Dukat. Nothing official. As you suspected, Ghemor had nothing to do with this and is in a bit of a rush to reroute the sub-routine that connected all of it to his residence. Ten, you always did have an unfortunate habit of making powerful enemies. I wish I had more for you than that. I don’t know what Dukat is after. I do know he went through no effort at all to cover his tracks.”

That in itself was telling. “Thank you, Eight,” Garak said, disappointed but at the same time pleased to hear the voice of an old friend. He knew it never would have happened with Tain still in the picture. “Ten out.” He tapped the badge and took a few minutes to listen to the night sounds of the city, music drifting down the street, the murmur of conversations of people walking and enjoying the night life of the district, and more subtly the whisper of a breeze and the songs of insects. The sky was too overcast for stars. That was all right. He had seen more than his fill of them in his lifetime.

He returned to his room to find Odo still poring over the records. He read exhaustion in the lines of his body. It was so late that some might call it early. It was time to call a halt to this charade. He now felt quite certain that whatever Dukat was after, the answer to it wouldn’t be found in the data. “Well?” Odo said without looking away from his work.

Garak shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time, We’re not going to discover what Dukat really wants tonight. If we had a few days, perhaps. We don’t, and you have a debate in the morning that I promise you will be exhausting.”

Odo glanced at him then, a gleam in his eyes that said he intended to rise to that challenge. “I’m going to take this with me,” he said. He ejected the data rod and cupped it in a loose clasp. “I do my best work alone, and at this point, there’s no way I could sleep.”

No, he imagined not, any more than he would now. “If you find something, let me know.”

Odo nodded. “You do the same. Good night, Garak.”

He walked him to the door and locked it behind him. Dukat was just petty enough that the whole point of this could have been to exhaust him and throw him off his game enough to make a fool of himself at the conference. It was an attractive notion but one he didn’t truly believe. He may have been that petty. He wasn’t that inefficient. Exhaustion and worry were side-effects, not the goal. He was all but sure of that. Despite the perceived futility of it, he returned to the records. Just because Dukat may have believed there was nothing actually of use there didn’t mean it was true. He spared a thought for Alon—Five—and shook his head. Ghemor never had enjoyed the most technical aspects of their curriculum. He was sorry he was drawn into this and unfortunately had no way to make it up to him.

_Julian  
Internment Camp 371_

Returning to his barracks, Julian wasn’t sure how he felt about how the conversation went. He had a difficult time seeing either Murak or Branagh as good choices for co-conspirators, the first too straightforward and literal, the second too wily and slick. It was as Murak said when they’d all first met. Branagh might or might not have been a merchant. Julian was now sure it wasn’t all he had been. Also, they didn’t yet have a plan, merely a commitment to come up with one. They couldn’t begin taking regular nightly walks together. In and of itself, it wouldn’t bring down consequences. After the fact, it would paint a target on all of their backs. Why had he ever thought a spy’s life would be thrilling or fun? It was the constant gnaw of paranoia in his gut, the sensation of disaster lurking right over his shoulder, and the nagging feeling he was missing something very important with no idea of what it could be.

Was this Garak’s life every single day? How did he stand it? A firm grip of his elbow just as he stepped through the door nearly made him yelp. “It’s just me,” Varal hissed.

“Not now,” Julian whispered. “I’m going to bed. Anything you want to say to me can wait until morning.”

The only response was a release of the grip and the Romulan stepping away. He shuffled to his bunk and collapsed down onto it. Martok would battle tomorrow. It had been too much to expect that he and Murak—and now Branagh, too, he reminded himself unhappily—would be able not only to come up with a plan to find supply stores, but make it past the Jem’Hadar undetected and steal from them within just two days. They’d be lucky if this didn’t take weeks to plan. They’d be lucky to manage it at all.

He sank into fitful sleep and awoke feeling just as exhausted and out of sorts as when he lay down. As always, he checked Tain’s vitals, administered his fraction of his Benjisidrine dose, watched him eat and drink his portion of breakfast plus contributions from the rest of them, and helped sequester him in the crawlspace. He had long since stopped worrying about what the Breen saw or overheard. Whether it was because the alien couldn’t make itself understood or wouldn’t, he had little worry about it conveying anything to their captors. It had no more reason to betray them than he did as far as he could tell.

Varal left the barracks. Sela stayed put, her turn for Tain watch. Julian was determined to witness Martok’s fight and be there to provide his limited medical assistance afterward, assuming the Klingon didn’t die. Martok sang to himself and looked as cheerful as a man on his way to a barrel of bloodwine. About ten minutes before the expected summons, they sealed off the hatch. The general said, “You make a wretched Second, Starfleet. You should be singing with me in celebration of the coming battle.”

“You’ll forgive me if I can’t summon enthusiasm for a potential suicide,” Julian said glumly.

Martok’s one eye flashed. “Suicide? Is that all you see with your two good eyes? Bah! This is glory! A fight for Klingon honor. For the Empire. For _us._ If I die, it’s sacrifice, yes, but not suicide. I have no wish for death, only victory, or if defeat must come, an honorable one.”

It offended every sensibility he had as a doctor, a human being, a man for whom this warrior risked much doing something he simply could not do, no matter how much he wished himself capable of it. He drew a breath, opened his mouth, and began belting out the song he had heard enough to know by heart. He fudged a few words on purpose. It only had Martok laughing and tossing a heavy arm over his shoulder for a rough squeeze. “That’s more like it! We go to this together!” When the Jem’Hadar escort showed up, Julian was as ready as he could be for them. He kept singing even when his mouth went dry.

_Garak_  
The Infirmary  
Deep Space Nine 

Garak seized the hand of the nurse helping him to sit up, blinking away residual disorientation and confusion. Nodding that he felt well enough to stand, he climbed to his feet and tugged the hem of his tunic into place. He spared a glance for Julian talking to Odo about their experiences, caught his eyes briefly, and allowed the nurse to lead him into an exam room. He forced himself to sit still and submit to the scans, reasoning that the sooner he finished with this, the sooner they’d let him go. He decided that if she pulled out a hypospray, he might have to get testy.

Fortunately, the nurse didn’t believe he was much the worse for wear from his ordeal. She briefly explained what had happened to all of them and how, Odo linking with them telepathically and causing a shared delusion after the runabout passed through a plasma field, then released him with the admonition to drink fluids and take it easy for a day or so. He quickly gathered his things and left the exam room with the intention of settling back into his quarters. Ziyal stopped him in his tracks. She sprang from her tense-looking seat in the waiting room and hurried over. “I’m so glad you’re OK!” she said. On the verge of flinging her arms around him, she seemed to recall herself at the last moment and instead lifted her hand to press.

He did so and did his best not to show her his impatience. She’d had reason to worry. “I truly am,” he said with as much cheer as he could muster. “As you can see, I’m intact and my usual charming self.”

Her smile softened. “You scared me. I thought we’ve agreed we wouldn’t do that to each other.”

“If I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t have.” He adjusted his bag’s strap on his shoulder in a way he hoped she would understand. It was preferable to having to tell her outright that he didn’t feel like sharing her company, not even for his walk back to the habitat ring.

Her smile faltered and resumed with a false veneer. “I know. I bet you’re tired. Don’t think this gets you off the hook for telling me how things went. Leeta and Aroya want to hear it, too. Maybe we can all have lunch at the cafe later this week.”

“That sounds delightful.” The lie came easily. No part of him wanted to speak about the conference, especially not to the people who’d be most disappointed in what he had to say. “It was recorded, you know. You could watch it.” It would spare him the effort of talking around the issue.

“Where’s the fun in that?” she teased.

“Then I promise to be at my most entertaining,” he said lightly. Once again, he reached to adjust the strap. This time, she relented and allowed him to depart gracefully with one final call over her shoulder of, “Lunch!”

Grateful of the chance to have time to himself, he walked at a leisurely pace and considered all that had happened over the weekend. So much of the constable’s attitude during and after the conference made sense to him now. As much as he knew it was petty, he also felt oddly...vindicated.

The Bajorans could never hold Odo up as some perfect example of justice again. Every look of veiled hostility, every rejection of Garak’s extremely well-informed and well-reasoned explanation of Cardassia’s position, every smug, self-satisfied and barbed question directed at him during the question-and-answer session felt a little less galling. If they could be made to understand how wrong they had been about Odo, maybe at least some of them would entertain the thought they didn’t know as much about Cardassians as they believed they did, not that he intended to hold his breath.

Odo’s taint, he realized, also made him feel better about everything that lay between them. The changeling had more secrets than he had imagined, at least one unsavory one. Where there was one, there were bound to be more. Now that he was aware of the potential, he could entertain himself trying to ferret another to the surface.

It made it easy enough to gloss over the details of his psychic ordeal as a Bajoran laboring on Terok Nor. Those weren’t real experiences, anyway. They were merely Odo’s projections of what he imagined the final days of the accused to be like. How different might the conference have gone had Odo come clean during their debate or during the questions afterward? He had seemed content to let Garak take all of the heat. It was difficult not to resent him for that, or for the fact that he had somehow linked with the rest of them in his guilt. Just more evidence of how useless and harmful guilt could be.

A small part of him had the self-awareness to point out that for someone who felt such righteous indignation, he certainly was jumping through more than his share of justification hoops. He inwardly scoffed and told himself that was hunger talking. He felt famished after avoiding most of the conference food all weekend. Fruit was a poor substitute.

Once he reached his room, he replicated himself a large bowl of sem’hal stew and a mug of fish juice. After he was sated, he unpacked, took a bath, and changed into comfortable pajamas. He felt a bit of disappointment that Julian hadn’t tried to check on him yet, neither through the comm nor with a visit. Could he blame him? During his incarceration he’d made his position clear, and it was the right position. He couldn’t allow loneliness to erode his self-control or change his mind. No. He had created the distance for a reason. He should be proud that Julian was finally experienced enough to see the sense in it. The doctor might just survive what was coming if he kept his distance.

Some of his resolve crumbled at the sound of his comm chime. He hurried over and answered the hail, only to feel pleased anticipation collapse into sullen resentment. It was Dukat’s self-satisfied countenance that greeted him, not the doctor’s. “I would think that by now, you would have learned your lesson about trips to Bajor,” he said, his voice dripping with false concern. “They are not at all good for your health.”

For one instant, he wondered who the spy was aboard the station. The thought hadn’t completed itself by the time realization followed. No spy. Ziyal. Doubtless she and her father were in regular contact and talked about any number of her day to day concerns, including her worry about Garak and the others. He’d have to take care what he broached with her and make a point of letting her know that he didn’t want her discussing him or his business with her father. He wasn’t looking forward to the conversation.

“As you can see, I’m perfectly healthy,” he said, spreading his arms. “Not a scratch. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Garak, you wound me. It may be difficult for you to believe, but I have concern for all of Cardassia’s sons and daughters, whether they’re deserving or not. How did the conference go? Was my information helpful?”

“Your information? Don’t you mean the council’s? It filled in a few gaps for me,” he said simply. “No one asked about you, though. I hope you weren’t expecting them to?”

How Dukat ever got as far as he did was beyond Garak. He couldn’t disguise when a barb struck him to save his life, or the irritation it elicited. “Of course not,” he said. “Why would anybody connect a nobody tailor to the former Prefect of Bajor?” 

“Try as I might, I couldn’t convince them that was all I did on Terok Nor. Some of their theories were quite inventive. Some of them were certain that it was actually you who answered to me. Can you imagine?” 

All geniality fled Dukat’s features, leaving him looking flatly annoyed. “It’s enough that I know the truth,” he snapped. Just as suddenly, the anger sank back beneath the surface. He paused long enough to cue Garak that what he had to say next was the hidden thorn. Garak knew that if he waited long enough, he’d find out. Dukat was too impatient and arrogant to let any chance to gloat go to waste. “Before I forget, please tell Odo I’m relieved to hear of his recovery. I was quite concerned when I heard he had fallen unconscious like the rest of you.” He offered his own version of a bland smile and abruptly cut the transmission.

 _Odo was the target._ Garak closed his eyes and let out a long, low breath. He strongly doubted that Dukat could have possibly known they’d fly through a plasma field or that the Founders had left any trace of Odo’s abilities to him. But he had to know about the innocent Bajorans and how that would have preyed on the changeling. The Terok Nor records must have put pressure on an already sore spot. Punishment for agreeing to the conference? A reminder that he wasn’t exactly innocent of wrong-doing? Some other motive or grudge beyond Garak’s knowledge? There was no way to know. Dukat was notoriously easy to offend. It could have been any of the above.

It was beyond galling that he had played right into his hands and shared the files. He decided not to compound his mistake by telling Odo about it. This particular secret would be easy enough to keep. Embarrassment saw to that.

_Julian  
Internment Camp 371_

He was no longer singing. He watched the brutal match in tense, undisguised concern. Every time Martok went down, part of him willed him to stay there. He couldn’t find his clinical detachment for the compounding wounds, fractured ribs, a broken hand, a cracked eye socket, the last good one, whatever now had him limping.

Three Jem’Hadar lay motionless on the ground, two of them only partially still within the circle. The last one standing looked as bad as Martok. The way they flung themselves at one another spoke of exhaustion close to the point of collapse. Julian had to hope the downed soldiers still breathed, or all of this would have been for nothing. If he killed them, there’d be no medicine.

The general grabbed the Jem’Hadar’s face in both hands and forehead butted him hard enough to snap his head back. Still he stood and swung at him. Martok cracked their heads together a second time. Julian winced at the sickening sound of it. Blood coursed down the Klingon’s face and smeared the Jem’Hadar’s scales, Martok’s blood, not the soldier’s. He reared back for a third strike that never came. The Jem’Hadar collapsed to his knees in slow motion only to fall forward flat on his face.

Martok waited and watched Ikat'ika bend to check each of his opponents for signs of life. The First straightened and looked straight ahead. “Today you have seen the actions of a worthy opponent. Observe, analyze, remember. The lessons you learn here will ensure victory. Victory is life!”

“Victory is life!” the rest of the soldiers barked out in unison before beginning to disperse.

The First approached Martok and withdrew a cylinder from his uniform pouch. “Your prize,” he said.

Julian clamped down on his desire to rush to the general’s side, despite the fact that it was obvious he was about to fall. He watched the Klingon’s efforts to take the cylinder, the difficulty compounded by injury as much as his lack of depth perception. He didn’t know if it was respect or some other alien impulse that prevented the Jem’Hadar from making it easier for him.

Once he had it and Ikat'ika stepped away, he hurried forward, joined by Varal. He had failed to see the Romulan in the crowd of onlookers, too focused on the match itself. Martok allowed them to bear his weight with an arm over each of their shoulders. He smiled at Julian with split, swollen lips. “They’re right about one thing,” he said. “Victory is life. Take the damned medicine, Doctor, before I drop it.”

It took away pieces of him that he wasn’t sure he’d ever get back every time he had to tend Martok after his battles. He had no bandages, nothing sterile, no instruments, not even enough water to clean him adequately. All of them except the Breen and Tain had over time contributed pieces of their underclothing to be torn to strips for makeshift bandages. That supply was running low. Julian refused to allow Tain to contribute any of his thermal underwear. Despite the heat of the camp, he had seen the Cardassian shivering under his thin blanket every time he lay down to sleep or rest. He suspected that Tain knew getting more chilled would finish him off. It was one of the few times he didn’t fight him over something.

Julian stayed grimly silent while setting Martok’s ribs yet again. He bandaged his broken hand and did what he could to push the jagged bone of the eye socket back into place. Only iron control and his years of training and experience kept tremors at bay. He dabbed at Martok’s forehead until the gruff Klingon cursed him and shoved him away with a growled, “Enough!”

It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough with what he had. He stood and stalked out of the barracks in fury and frustration so overwhelming he thought he’d scream. Five steps out, he heard footsteps behind him and whirled. Varal again. This time he had Sela with him. “What?” he snapped. “Whatever you think you have to say, I’m sure I don’t want to hear it!”

The Romulans glanced at one another. “Even to hear we’re in?” Sela asked so quietly he had to strain to hear her.

“In?” he asked, hardly daring to hope she was saying what he thought she was saying.

“In,” Varal confirmed. “Whatever you’re going to do with the Vulcan and that thief, count us in. If we don’t do something soon, there won’t be enough of any of us left to save. We’re all starving to death. I know you feel it, too.”

Julian’s head spun. He had to work to concentrate. It was almost too much to take in at once. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Thief?”

Sela smirked and said, “I told you he didn’t know.”

Varal ignored the taunt. “That’s right,” he said. “Timor Branagh was our contact with the Orion Syndicate. The fact you didn’t know has me rethinking this already.”

Sela rolled her eyes. “We don’t have time for that anymore.” She looked expectantly at Julian. “So? When do we start?”

**Author's Note:**

> This picks up directly where “The Path of Most Resistance,” left off. It spans the episode “Things Past,” without directly dipping into it. If you haven’t seen the episode or haven’t seen it in a while, the story will make more sense with that as context toward the end. One portion of Jem’Hadar dialog is taken from “By Inferno’s Light,” as the Jem’Hadar are a people of ritual and repetition. This story is new and the beginning of the continuation of the series after its long hiatus. (Also, for reasons I cannot begin to fathom, every time I have posted this, it has refused to recognize my HTML when it comes to Garak's sections of the story. It italicizes his name but not the locations. After numerous attempts to edit, I am giving up on that. Know I am aware of it but for reasons unknown unable to correct it.)


End file.
